


My True Love Gave to Me (Or: the 12 Days of Flufflock)

by somethingsalwayswrong



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anxiety, Arguing, Awkward Hugs, Blood and Injury, Case Fic, Christmas Fluff, Exotic Dancers, Fridge-Related Hijinks, Getting Together, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort, John Watson is bad at feelings, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Making Up, More Pining, PTSD John, Pining, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Tea, The 12 Days of Christmas, awkward dinners, ballet!lock, playing footsy, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 08:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2766998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingsalwayswrong/pseuds/somethingsalwayswrong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>12 Days in the life of John and Sherlock, leading up to Christmas. One chapter a day. Each day is themed after a different lyric from the song "The 12 Days of Christmas". Much fluff abounds. Tags will be updated with each chapter. </p>
<p>Takes place in that magical universe where Season 3 didn't happen so everyone wrote whatever they wanted. In this version, Sherlock is back, lives in 221B again, and Mary never happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Partridge in A Pear Tree

**Author's Note:**

> Endless thanks to Marzipanmadness for talking fic with me all the time and helping inspire this story. You're an absolute peach.

**December 13 9:45am**

It was early morning in London. The air was crisp and cool, people rushing about the city bundled like presents in dark wool and thick gloves. Breath puffed out in front of them, visible and thick in the bitter air. There were shops opening and quiet greetings in the cool morning air, the city not yet fully awake, unwilling to disturb the tentative peace. 

Except at 221B Baker Street where a shouting match was just warming up.

"John!" Sherlock shouted from the couch, where he was lounging in his dressing gown. "If I hear Feliz Navidad one more time, I will melt the radio with the acid in the tea kettle!" 

John was pointedly ignoring Sherlock, dancing slightly to the music as he made tea (not using the kettle). Under his breath, he hummed, "I wanna wish you a merry Christmas I wanna wish you a merry Christmas". Sherlock would not ruin Christmas for him this year. 

Sherlock was just about to get up to get the aforementioned kettle of acid when there was a quiet knock at the door. 

A client.

John switched off the radio, Sherlock leapt up and began smoothing out his hair before opening the door on the tiniest and most timid woman he had seen since he met Molly. 

_22 or 23, lives with boyfriend and two, no three cats, chews gum so she doesn't bite her nails (not working), worries her lips, most likely anxiety problems aggrivated by low income job based on clothing choices (economical, warm, cheaply made). Librarian? Secretary? Secretary more likely based on Ink smears on outside of left hand._

Sherlock frowned deeply. Odds were this was going to be yet another "my boyfriend mysteriously vanished and wouldn't you know, so did all my money" sort of clients. He hated those.

She stood in the doorway and chewed on her lip, staring up at Sherlock who continued to frown. "Um...Mr. Sherlock Holmes? " she finally squeaked out. "I was uh...I was told I could find him here?" 

Sherlock swept away from the door grandly. "Yes Yes come in," he said in a disinterested tone before flopping into his chair. John came in with an extra cup of tea for the woman and gestured for her to sit on the couch. She sat down in the center of the couch, perched on the edge of the seat and her entire body compressed as small as she could make it. 

"Well Miss uh..." John began. 

"Hooper. Agnes Hooper," The woman supplied. John and Sherlock both looked up in confusion.

"Hooper? Molly's cousin, then?" Sherlock inquired.

"Yes. She said you could help me? You see, it's about my boyfriend." 

Sherlock groaned. "Yes he's left you and yes he's the one who took your money, grandmother's ring, favorite China, or other expensive item, so sorry have a good day." Sherlock stood to show her out. 

"Well no Randall is fine. He's waiting outside, actually. Its about these letters he's been getting." Agnes reached into her bag and pulled out a sheet of paper, written on yellow note paper. The words were all computer typed. She handed it over to John.

"WE HAVE THE BIRD RANDALL. BRING £10000. "  
John looked at the paper before handing it to Sherlock. 

"What's the bird it's mentioning?" John asked. 

"Well you see, that's just it. We don't know. We don't have a bird. This just got slipped under our door today." Agnes tightened the grip on her purse handles and worried at her lip some more.

 

Sherlock looked up from the letter. "We'll take the case, Angie." 

"Its Agnes."

"Is it? Angie is at least more modern. I'd prefer it if I were you. "

Agnes frowned suddenly. "You. Molly told me you were like this, how you treat her. I don't appreciate people mistreating my cousin, Mister Holmes." She spat out his name like it was foul. "My name is Agnes. Not Angie. Don't get it wrong again. " 

She stood and handed a business card to John. This is where you can reach me if you have any leads. Our address is listed on the back. Have a good day, Mr. Watson. " she offered John a smile. "Sherlock." She offered him something more akin to venom before letting herself out. 

John and Sherlock sat in silence for nearly a minute. Finally Sherlock said, "Well I rather like this Hooper, don't you?"

**11:00 am**

John and Sherlock found themselves in a set of flats just outside of London. It was a large grey concrete building with even square windows marking off each tiny apartment. Agnes and Randall lived on the 8th floor. There was no elevator. 

"I'll tell you one thing," John huffed around flight 5. "These bird-nappers are dedicated to climb these stairs instead of slipping the letter in their mailbox downstairs." Sherlock was already nearly up the next flight of stairs and shouted down at John.  
"Come on, John!" John grumbled a bit as he reached the 6th floor, picturing the warm fire he could be sitting in front of back at home, with Christmas music playing softly in the background. 

He loved the cases, of course. But this was the first Christmas since Sherlock's return, the first Christmas back in 221B. He wanted to be enjoying the season at home, not climbing 8 bloody flights of concrete bloody stairs in a drafty apartment complex. 

Eventually, they did reach Agnes and Randall's door, which was as neat and grey as the rest of the building. There was a sticky note on the door 's front. 

JOHN WE'RE AT WORK BUT PLZ COME IN  
-A & R

"Why is it only addressed to you?" Sherlock asked as they let themselves in.

"I'm pretty sure Agnes hates you. Doesn't sound too fond of how you treat Molly."

"What's wrong with how I treat Molly?"

"Do you want the long list or the short one?"

As they opened the door, three cats meowed and ran up. One began rubbing against Sherlock's leg. He stared at it briefly before gently nudging it so he.could fully enter the flat. John picked one of them up and gave its head a quick scratch. It seemed to appreciate that and pureed in his arms. They looked around the flat. It was small, comfortably decorated, and smelled impossibly strongly of cinnamon and nutmeg. Sherlock swept around the apartment grandly, poking his head in drawers, searching through cupboards, looking into a potted plant for some reason. John put the cat down and checked the pile of mail on the end table. 

There were Christmas cards from relatives (including Molly, actually), bills, junk mail, and a magazine for cross stitch  
supplies. He was just putting it back when a small envelope slid its way out from the pages of the catalog. 

John plucked it out. It was made out of the same yellow lined paper as the letters. 

"Sherlock, I found something. " Sherlock looked up from where he had shimmied half his body under the sofa and shimmied his way back out. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and picked up the envelope. 

John watched as Sherlock turned it over in his hands, sniffed it, and then tasted it with a grimace.

Sherlock opened the cheaply made envelope and pulled out a small note from within. On it was more computer typed words, this time cut out and pasted onto this paper. It read "LA POIRE 9:00 PM. BRING THE MONEY OR THE BIRD GETS IT. "

Sherlock looked up at John. "They want to do a ransom exchange at a French bistro?"

"We have had stranger things happen," John pointed out. 

"True. Well, there's nothing to be done until this evening. We'll go to the restaurant, say we've brought the money on behalf of Randall and Annie, then arrest them and find whatever this bird is. Let's go home, John."

"Its Agnes. "

"Oh? I think John suits you better."

**12:45 pm**

John had Christmas music blasting again, Sherlock was dissecting a human foot, John made a point not to ask why he had a human foot, and Mrs. Hudson had dropped off a fresh batch of cookies. 221B felt about as festive as it could get right at that moment. Even Sherlock was humming along with "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing" as he exposed the muscle layer on the sole of the foot.

John sat in his armchair by the fire, relishing in the heat. 221 had some lovely flats but they could get more than a bit drafty during the winter. He was just about to open up a book so he could read by the fire when Sherlock came over and nearly threw himself to the floor right in front of the fire. 

"What happened to the foot?"

"It needs to steep for 48 hours."

"...right. And you're on the floor because...?"

"My chair isn't close enough to the fire and I'm cold. "

"Okay." John shrugged. For Sherlock, this hardly counted as strange behavior. And truth be told, it was slightly endearing to see him sitting cross legged on the floor, staring at the fire like a small child. John turned his attention to his book and chose to accept this moment of quiet domesticity. 

After a few minutes, John heard Sherlock move. He assumed he had warmed up enough and was getting up to do something else. Instead, he felt a solid weight press against his legs. He looked up from his book to see Sherlock resting against them.

John opened his mouth to question, or to tease. Then he closed it. What was there really to question? Sherlock obviously needed something to lean against. And...it was nice. Sherlock was warm and human pressed against his legs. Truth be told, John hadn't had a whole lot of physical contact in the last few years. And if Sherlock felt like using him as a human chair, well who was he to complain? 

**6:35 pm**  
"Wait. You seriouly had no idea Molly and Greg were together? " John question over cartons of Chinese food. 

"Who's Greg?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh Jesus... Lestrade. Lestrade and Molly have been dating in secret for 6 months now. And I use the word secret generously."

"Oh. No I didn't notice."

John stared at him. "You do realize you're a detective, right? "

Sherlock scoffed and picked up another potsticker.  
"Of course I realize I'm a detective. I simply don't concern myself with the lust-addled poor decisions of people. "

"I think they're a good couple actually, " John replied, biting into a spring roll. 

"Well you're a hopeless romantic," Sherlock rebutted. The way he said it, it almost sounded like an insult. 

"I am, "John assured him. "Don't care what you think about that, either. One of us has to have a heart."  
"I have a heart," Sherlock looked nearly offended and for a moment, John felt guilty for insulting him. A moment of stiff silence drew out before them.

"Its in the crisper drawer." Sherlock's face broke into a shit-eating grin and the walls of 221B rang with horrifyingly loud laughter.

8:30 pm

"Ready?" Sherlock turned to John in the backseat of the cab. They'd arrive at La Poire in a few minutes. 

John lifted his coat just enough to show the handle of his Browning, tucked at the small of his back where it always lived. Sherlock nodded in approval. "Now, we'll find the bird-nappers, claim we have the money, and then strike. Sound good?" John nodded. It was one of their more straightforward plans. 

The cab pulled up to La Poire right around 8:55, giving them a few minutes to prepare themselves. La Poire was a fairly typical French restaurant. There was outdoor seating, decorated with strings of white fairy lights and a wrought iron fence. In the corner was a small potted tree, also strung up with fairy lights. People were chatting quietly, sipping at wine. From the kitchen, scents of garlic, orange peel, and roast meat wafted over. It was a charming little place and if they hadn't been on a case, John might have liked to eat there.

They entered, Sherlock managed to get them a table outside after some finagling (lying outright to the hostess), and they ordered a small appetizer as they scanned the restaurant for the mysterious bird-nappers. After a moment, John spotted a couple sitting in the corner by the small tree. A man and a woman, sipping wine and checking their watches every few moments. They seemed nervous. 

"Sherlock," he whispered and nodded towards them. Sherlock caught his eye with an assured look and they rose simultaneously before walking over to the nervous couple. 

The two sets of people stared at each other moment. The couple seemed tired. The man's hair was ginger, but was giving way to white rather early for his apparent. He had bags under his eyes. The woman seemed even more tired than the ginger man, if that was possible. She had put on bright red lipstick. It didn't suit her. John almost felt sorry for them. 

"We're here for Randall and Alice," Sherlock said in a quiet authoritative voice.  
"Agnes," John corrected quickly. 

"Randall and Agnes?" The woman frowned. "No, we should be meeting Randall and Betty." She looked over at the man harshly. "You idiot! You got the wrong address, didn't you Keith?!" 

"It wasn't my fault, Jessie! I work with 4 different Randalls! Hard to keep em straight!" Jessie, the woman, thwhacked him over the head. 

"Well. That was easy," John muttered. "Right then, you two are under citizen's arrest. Come on," John said. There was a moment of hesitation. Then they both sprung up from their chairs and clambered over the iron fence that surrounded the patio. John and Sherlock followed quickly, preparing themselves for another epic chase through the dark streets and alleyways of London. 

They got half a block before Jessie tripped on her heels, bringing Keith down with her. 

John called the Met, Keith and Jessie cried about being arrested, and John and Sherlock led them back to the restaurant so they could retrieve the bird, wherever it was. Neither one of the bird-nappers would say where they had hidden the bird. John figured it couldn't be that difficult to hide a live animal in a French restaurant. But a quick tour proved there to be nothing there. Sherlock paced impatiently. He hated loose ends.

Lestrade showed up and arrested Keith and Jessie on theft and blackmail, albeit the worst job at either one that he could recall. 

"Well, where's this bird they stole then?" Lestrade asked John as Sherlock paced around the restaurant, irritating the diners.  
"We can't find it anywhere. It should be nearby, if it was a ransom exchange. But a live bird shouldn't be this difficult to find." 

"Well, we gotta find it. The charges those two idiots'll face depends on how much the bird's worth and how well they took care of it. "

John sighed. "Yeah, I know."

"Cute place, though. Might have to take someone here sometime soon," Lestrade grinned. 

John smiled at him. "Yeah I think Molly would love this place."  
Lestrade shuffled uncomfortably where he was standing. "Well ah..."

"Greg, we all know. It doesnt matter."

"Well, I guess not. We just didn't want to make things weird, you know? But I'll take her here, I think. Get us a good bottle of wine. Make a proper night of it."  
"Sounds perfect. " John smiled warmly, picturing the two of them enjoying a night out in public for once. 

Sherlock had just run over to the corner of the patio area, where Keith and Jessie had been sitting. He looked over the table again and groaned in frustration. There was nothing. There was no sign of the damned bird. He hopped on a chair and went to swing himself over the fence so he could tell Lestrade and John there was no bird. But he missed. His arm hit the small potted tree and it knocked over. A faint clink could be heard as it made contact with the ground. Sherlock leaned over and apparently liked what he saw, because John watched his whole face break into a 10000 watt grin. He stopped over and looking at them both, held up something from within the tree.

It was a small porcelain partridge. 

**11:30 pm**

John and Sherlock made their way quietly into 221. They had gone to give statements immediately afterwards (for once) and now they were both rather tired. As it turned out from what Lestrade got out of them, the partrige was worth a lot. Some sort of collectible antique. Keith worked with Agnes' boyfriend Randall at a call center. There were also three other Randalls working there. Keith had heard one of them mention a porcelain partridge at work, one that was worth a lot. So when Keith saw it in his car, he stole it. Then he snuck into the company personnel records and got his address so he and Jessie could ransom it. But he got the wrong address and threatened the wrong Randall. John wasn't sure if either of them realized they had stashed a partridge in a tree at a restaurant called The Pear but his amusement at more than made up for the lack of proper action in this case. 

John snickered again, thinking about it.  
"I still don't see why it's funny, " Sherlock said as they made their way up the stairs. 

"Well, cause of the song." Sherlock looked over his shoulder and stared briefly. 

"The 12 Days of Christmas? " More staring. 

"Oh my god you've deleted it, haven't you?"

"I rarely keep music I find irritating. No point to it. " John rolled his eyes. 

"Come on, then. I'm making you listen to it." John poked at his back to hurry him up the stairs. "We all suffer through that song every year and you don't get to escape from that." 

"But John," Sherlock whined petulantly. 

"Nope. Not buts about it. You're listening to it or I'm throwing away your foot."

And they both vanished into the door of 221B, bickering all the way.


	2. Two Turtle Doves

**December 14**

"There," John stated through gritted teeth as he finished stitching up the latest gash on Sherlock. It wasn't deep but the bullet still did some damage.

"You're lucky it only grazed your arm, you great bloody idiot!" Now that Sherlock was patched up, John could finally let himself feel the rage that he had been suppressing. "You ran off without me, without Lestrade! You knew you were chasing down an armed gunman and you still ran after him alone!" John breathed out heavily through his nose, feeling his blood pressure raising dangerously.

Sherlock sat on the toilet seat, shirtless and examining his new stitches with what seemed like bored amusement. 

"Are you listening to me at all?" John demanded. 

Sherlock looked up to where John was standing. "Hm? Oh yes, barely. I tend to tune people out when I save their lives and they yell at me for my efforts." He raised an eyebrow in challenge. 

"You keeping us safe doesn't do any good if it puts yourself into danger! You chased down a deranged gunman alone and unarmed. Jesus, you can't do these things Sherlock!"

"It's not my fault you two are slower, John." Sherlock stood from his seat and brushed past John to leave the tiny bathroom. 

"No you are not pulling that shit again, just walking off all cool and aloof!" John grabbed Sherlock's uninjured arm and forcefully walked the protesting detective through the bathroom and into the sitting room, practically shoving him on to the couch. 

"Now. You," John said through a clenched jaw, "are going to sit here and listen. I am pissed. No, I am not just pissed. I am livid. You've been home 6 months. I've only just gotten used to you being alive again, I am not letting you rush into danger alone anymore!" John exhaled shakily, images of Sherlock's fall, his funeral, the grey empty years between his death and his return flashing past his eyes. He shook them away, not needing to add any fuel to his fire. 

Sherlock sat on the couch listening to John's rant, a degree of irritation creeping into his features. "I believe I already explained to you-"

"That it was necessary and for the good for myself and all our friends, yes you have. I know Moriarty's men would have killed us, you've told me a thousand times now."

"Then we should be past this. Really, John if you understand why I had to leave, then this possessive...thing," he waved his hand between them to illustrate his point, "makes no sense. Now am I free to leave?"

John barked out a laugh. "You don't get it, do you? No of course you don't understand, why would I be thick as to think that?" He wasn't yelling anymore but a bitter tone had creeped it's way into his voice. 

"Yes, John. I fail to understand why you continue to demand my presence constantly. I mean surely you've noticed. Since I've been back, you follow me everywhere. You're on edge anytime I leave the flat without you and you turned a client away when I was picking up Chinese last week." John opened his mouth to deny it but Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. 

"Oh don't bother, your shoes gave it away." John raised an eyebrow. "And he emailed me about my rude assistant. " Sherlock raised an eyebrow in return. 

A migraine began forming between John's eyes. He dug his thumb and forefinger into it, hoping the pressure would help. He ruminated on what Sherlock had just said. Had he become...clingy? Why? He was worried about Sherlock still, sure. But Sherlock was safe now. He was home. 

"I just...I worry about you." John felt deflated, his anger seeping out of him. 

"But why, John?" Sherlock had moved to the edge of the couch seat and was doubled over in his "thinking pose", hands steeped under his chin. "There's no logic to it. I'm healthy and alive, you have concrete evidence of that. I'm right here. Why would you feel worried for me?"

John sighed. "It doesn't have to be logical, Sherlock. It's emotions. It's...well, _concern._ "John fidgeted in his place. 

They didn't talk about feelings. John was uncomfortable with too much sentiment and Sherlock found human emotion interesting only to the extent that they affected criminal behavior. But, it appeared they needed to do this. John took a deep breath. He invaded Afghanistan, he could do this. 

"Look. When you died, it destroyed me. I was a mess the last two years, trying to piece my life back together." Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but John held out a hand. "Just...let me finish. God knows we should have talked about this months ago." He steadied his nerves, then continued. 

"I know why you did it. To protect us. So I forgive you for all that. But I still worry. I just got you back and I'm still...scared, I guess." He sighed.

"But _why_?" Sherlock asked in frustration, hands buried into his hair. 

John scoffed breathily. "You great bloody tit...because you're my best friend and I love you!" John blinked. That was...not what he was planing on saying. But it felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off his chest. How long had he been sitting on that? He swallowed, forcing himself to look at Sherlock, whose eyes had gone wide with surprise. 

John rubbed the back of his neck. "Well...that's my olive branch, yeah? We can just end this whole thing now. I'll just..." He turned to leave, give them both the space they probably needed after he had gone and made everything weird. He had gotten halfway to the stairs when his movement was impeded by a pair of lanky arms wrapping around his chest. "You're my best friend too," he heard mumbled into the fabric of his jumper. 

John froze. Sherlock Holmes did not hug. A conspiratorial clasp of a hand on a shoulder, maybe. But never a hug. When it became apparent Sherlock had no plans on moving, John allowed himself to relax into it. Sherlock was warm, very warm actually. It was comforting. Sherlock was _alive_ , actually alive. He had wondered sometimes...

Sherlock's head was resting on John's shoulder and John felt his breath tickle his neck slightly. That was....different. But human. Reassuring. 

Sherlock apparently didn't process the ability to gauge when to end a hug and didn't seem prepared to end it anytime soon. John awkwardly patted his hands, which were clasped on John's chest. Sherlock sheepishly released him and John turned to face him. 

"Right. So... yes. All of that," Sherlock managed to work out as a blush crept up his face. 

John sighed out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Okay, good. Look, I'll try to stop being so clingy, yeah? But you've got to keep me in the loop. You can't rush off into danger alone like you did today."

Sherlock nodded soberly. John nodded back, giving his best friend a weary smile. They were going to be okay. They were fine. 

"What a lovely scene. My congratulations to the happy couple." Mycroft's voice rang out from their front doorway, where he was leaning against his umbrella and smirking. And just like that, Sherlock's face twisted into a scowl. "Mycroft. What are you doing here?" he spat out. 

"Why, my dear brother," Mycroft drawled out, walking into the flat. "I've simply come to invite the two of you to dinner tomorrow evening." Sherlock gave him a two finger salute, slinking over to the couch so he could throw himself onto it dramatically. 

"This is a mandatory offer, Sherlock. " Mycroft's tone didn't suggest otherwise. 

John sighed. Lovely.


	3. Three French Hens

**December 15**

Glasses clinked gently. Soft music played under laughter that twinkled like stars. There was the heady scent of butter and roast bird in the air. The restaurant was posh, tastefully decorated, and there was more money per table than some families combined. Of course, the air surrounding the table holding John Watson and the Holmes brothers felt like a war zone. The air was nearly buzzing with animosity. 

Mycroft and Sherlock sat across from him, waging some sort of silent battle. The younger Holmes was hiding ill-concealed rage at being there, the older something more akin to bemusement at his younger brother. Neither had said a word since arriving. 

_"Sherlock," with false warmth. "Mycroft," with genuine irritation._

Once again, as he was every time he had to deal with the two brothers, John was trapped between a sibling rivalry that had gone on for far too long.

The waiter arrived to clear their sorbet dishes and announced he'd return with their entrees after a moment. John nodded his thanks as the waiter left. Then it was just the three of them again. Mycroft sipped his wine quietly, smirking over the rim of the glass. 

John inhaled, about to speak. Both Holmeses snapped their heads up and John felt the words shrivel up inside him. His mouth closed and he coughed uncomfortably. 

Dinner arrived. Three roast game hens, stuffed with herbs and potatoes. At least the food was promising. 

The silence stretched out for a bit longer as the three men took a moment to savour the food, which was excellent. The quiet was justified now and for a moment, John hardly even noticed it.

"So I trust you'll be coming home for Christmas this year, Sherlock? " And there went the peace.

Sherlock's head snapped up and he glared at his brother. 

"Why would I? You'll be there," he responded.

Mycroft sipped at his wine delicately, patiently. He smirked as he set it back down.  
"Perhaps because you've been officially dead for three years, brother mine?"

John stopped chewing. Had Sherlock not gone to see his parents after _returning from the dead?_

"Sherlock...you _did_ go to see your parents after you came back, right?"

Sherlock suddenly found something just beyond John's shoulder captivating. 

"Y-you didn't go see your own parents?" He sputtered. "Jesus Sherlock, you're going to see them!"

"John, I don't think you underst-" His sentence was cut off by a quick kick to the shin from John. The detective scowled at him but retracted his statement. 

"Now. Sherlock would just _love_ to go and join his parents for Christmas. I'm sure that since they haven't seen him since he returned from the dead." He delivered another kick under the table, this one landing on the toe of Sherlock's expensive shoes. "I'm sure that Sherlock realizes that when you run off and pretend to be dead for three years, people who care about you might want to see you." He met Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock didn't appear to change his scowl outwardly but John noticed the small change, a slight softening of his features. He gave a tiny nod, barely a movement of his head. But it was enough for John. 

"Glad that's settled then," John said, grinning over the rim of his wine glass. He tapped Sherlock's foot gently, a placating motion. Sherlock tapped back in what John hoped meant "apology accepted". 

Dinner continued on. There really was an extensive amount of food. There was a rich soup made out of some kind of squash, a salad topped with lots of various fruits and seeds, and another sorbet, this one lemon. Throughout the meal, John and Sherlock continued to tap each other's foot back and forth, back and forth. John thought it was a bit silly but it was sort of...fun?

Briefly he remembered sitting across from Denise Owens in middle school, play fully nudging each other's feet under the cafeteria table. He shook his head. That was different. That had been footsy, something silly smitten kids did. This was...well, they were grown men. And grown men didn't play footsy.

Did they?

John looked up to Sherlock's face. He was quietly examining his sorbet. He didn't seem to be blushing or giggling or even acknowledging the fact that they continued to make contact under the table. 

There. That settled it. It wasn't footsy. They may have just declared their love for each other the day before but that didn't make this flirting or anything. 

John helped himself to a generous bite of his sorbet, confident in the fact that this was platonic foot tapping. 

Mycroft dabbed at his lips with a napkin. "Of course John, you'll be joining us."

The blogger looked at him suspiciously. "And why would I be doing that?"

He was rewarded with a smirk, one that implied _you're ten steps behind again._

"Your family is quite small, not planning anything for Christmas. And your sister, the only family you really keep in touch with in the first place, is in rehab. You could stay at 221B for the holidays but Mrs. Hudson will be out of town. Now, we can't _possibly_ have my dear brother's little shadow wandering around all alone."

John sighed. Apparently he actually was ten steps behind.

Truth be told, he hadn't been looking forward to the holidays alone. But after their discussion yesterday, John felt he had to check with Sherlock. He looked up where the detective was sitting. Sherlock was busy reading something on his phone.

Not looking up from his phone, the detective waved his hand flippantly. "Please do come, John. It will be less dull anyway. Even with your simple mind, you can usually make dreadful affairs such as these somewhat tolerable. " This was followed by his foot tapping John's, lingering moment to rub against the shorter man's. 

John knew well enough by now to read between the lines of Sherlock's back-handed compliments. 

"I'd love to, thanks Mycroft." John raised his glass slightly. Mycroft's smirk became a gentle smile. 

Well this evening hadn't turned out so bad. He'd gotten an exquisite free meal, Sherlock hadn't been a COMPLETE cock to his brother, and he seemed to be keeping their conversation from yesterday in mind. His life was pretty good. He was full, he had good wine in him, and even as he tapped Sherlock's foot under the table, he knew where he stood with the detective. 

Then Sherlock slid the toe of his shoe up the inner length of John's calf, sending a shiver up his spine. 

Well fuck.


	4. Four Calling Birds

**December 17**

221A had been scrubbed from top to bottom, then once again. There were doilies out, the nicest china Mrs. Hudson owned (a wedding present from her family), and trays loaded with cakes and sandwiches. Everything had to be perfect. After all, she only saw her girls once or twice a year. 

The sound of excited chatter and clicking heels gave them away before they could ring the bell. Mrs. Hudson swung the door open to reveal four women close to her age: Dottie, Ruth, Gretchen, and Olivia.

"Martha!" exclaimed Dottie, her thick Scottish brogue ringing through the air as she wrapped Mrs. Hudson in a crushing hug. The other three women followed suit, gushing and cooing over each other and how good they all looked and was that a new hat?

The women shucked their coats and hats, chattering away the whole time.

As Mrs. Hudson took their coats, she exclaimed, "Oh it's simply been too long since I've seen you all! Sometimes I miss my Club Delirium days." She sighed wistfully but as she went to hang their coats, her hip shot out a twinge of pain. "Oh but my hip doesn't." She pressed a hand to it gingerly.

"Oh we all remember how you hurt that hip, Martha!" Olivia snickered, her American accent strange to hear in 221.  
Gretchen smacked Olivia's arm. "Love, you are an absolute cad!" There was no real heat behind it though. It was rare that the five of them got together these days and it always brought the same fiery youth out in Olivia that had attracted Gretchen all those years ago. 

They all settled down for tea. There was so much to discuss and none of them knew where to start. Like had they all heard that Old Tomas, their former manager, was _still_ running girly shows all over London? After all, noted Dottie, he had been rather old even when they were in their prime, not that they weren't still stunning or anything. She patted her fiery red hair that was giving way to white. All the women agreed wholeheartedly. 

Olivia and Gretchen talked about their grandchildren, passing the pictures along the table. Ruth sighed, remembering when her daughter Lucy had been that age. Like the good British citizens that they all were, they all tutted and patted her arm. 

Scones were eaten. Gossip was shared. Ruth talked about her harrowing holiday shopping adventures. 

Tea continued on for a while, the women talking and eating as of they hadn't done either in years. And then, in the middle of Ruth's story about her husband finding photographs from her club days, there was an explosion from upstairs. 

"Oh my, is that your tenants upstairs? " Gretchen asked.

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "It's fine though. If it's something dangerous John, bless him, will let us know."

As it was, John could be heard shouting upstairs. Sherlock's deep baritone could be heard in response. Though they were too far away to hear the whole argument, the words "sugar bowl", "sheep", and a variety of curse words could be heard. The women sat in quiet and listened to the argument. 

After a moment, Sherlock said something that must have defused the situation because both of them broke out into wheezing laughter. 

"Are they always like that?" Dottie asked. 

Mrs. Hudson nodded, sipping at her tea. "Very nearly at each other's throats, right up to the moment they're not. There's a powerful tension in that flat, I swear."

Olivia snickered. "I know a way they could break that tension, " she muttered salaciously. Gretchen gave her an admonishing look. "Darling, must you be so vulgar?"

Ruth cut in. "No she's right. I remember how the two of you were before you got together." She pointed at the couple with a biscotti, chuckling. 

"Remember when Gretchen got completely wasted that one night and tried to start that fight in the dressing room?" She broke down into giggles. "An-and Olivia...went to grab her by the hair-"

"And the whole wig came off!" Exclaimed all the other women, cackling hysterically. It took nearly another minute before they could compose themselves.

Finally, when they had all caught their breath, Mrs Hudson said, "I do think Olivia is right though. You should see them during a proper row, crowding into each other's space, puffing out their chests, eyes all intense..." 

Dottie shivered. "That's just indecent, Martha."

Mrs Hudson gave her an exasperated look. "And Lord knows I've tried to get them to see it. I've hinted, prodded, slipped them a little liquid courage..."

The rest of the group stared on in shock. "What?" She argued. "I was desperate. The sexual tension in that flat is enough to kill a dear old lady."

She stirred her tea. "And sometimes they're just the sweetest things. The other day, I went up to return an Afghan of John's he lent me when the heat had gone, bless him, and the two of them had fallen asleep watching telly on the couch. And John had his head on Sherlock's shoulder, it was simply precious with the fire lit and their Christmas tree all decorated. So I just tiptoed over, covered them with the afghan, and snuck out." She smiled. "One day, I think, they'll realize what they have."

For a moment, all of the women smiled, thinking fondly of young love. Ruth pictured her husband, sitting at home and most likely yelling at the television. Gretchen and Olivia clasped each other's hands, remembering the women they once were. Dottie's mind wandered to a young man who had held her hand and brought her flowers. And Martha Hudson? Well, she thought of her two boys upstairs. 

Peals of laughter rang out from upstairs. Dottie leaned over the table, frowning. "Are ya sure ya want them getting together, Martha? You'd be able to hear their whole blessed honeymoon from your kitchen." And the five ladies launched into a discussion on the possible merits of that.


	5. Five Golden Rings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am soooooo sorry this is late! Real life attacked and I didn't finish editing til this morning. 
> 
> Being hastily edited as it is, please let me know if you find any errors in this story. 
> 
> New chapter later today!

**December 17**

There were water rings on the coffee table. Five of them, four perfect circles and one reddish smear. Had this been two years ago, John would have been irritated. He would have kicked up a fuss because honestly Sherlock it's not that hard to grab a coaster, you're an adult. But two years ago was a whole different world. He was a different man.

John sat on the sofa, arms rested on his knees, leaning forward. The flat was silent. He tried not to think about how Sherlock was off doing who knew what. They had talked about that. He was trying, even as he felt worry and panic try to build under his skin. Sherlock could disappear. Sherlock could die. If he wasn't there...

He stared at the rings. He tried to redirect his focus onto them. If he thought hard about it, he could even picture how some of the got made. 

The one near the edge of the table? That was probably from Sherlock, when he'd had that atrocious flu. John had brought him glasses of water to cool him down, cups of tea to warm him up. The water glass must have sweat. John hadn't thought to grab a coaster, not when. Sherlock was so pale and shivering. John hadn't left his side. 

Why would he?

Or what about that thin ring, towards the middle? Had to have been a wine glass, just based on the shape and color. Someone had spilled red wine. It had stained. Must have been from Christmas, when they'd had everyone over. Sherlock had played violin, dramatically swaying to the music in the window. 

John smiled. Other than Irene Adler, it was a good Christmas. And there was a girl... Alice? Susan? Cheryl. No, that couldn't be it. God, that was a sign, wasn't it? They had gone out for nearly a year and John couldn't even remember her name. He laughed to himself, remembering how she had called Sherlock his boyfriend. Everyone assumed that. Just because they lived together didn't mean anything. And sure. They spent a lot of time together. But it was completely platonic. 

Well, except those quiet moments when John would look up from his blog or his book and find Sherlock staring at him, like he was taking John apart mentally, piece by piece. It made John feel like a bug under a microscope. He shouldn't have liked that. He did. 

Or when they'd come back from a case on an adrenaline high, the world sharper and brighter than he could ever remember. Those were the moments, when his heart was pounding, he'd look over and see Sherlock, head tipped back in throaty laughter. It was moments like that where John's throat would go dry, his hands clammy. For their first couple of years together, he'd wondered why. Now though...

But no. John shook his head, coming back to the sofa, the flat, the present. 

They were friends. Just friends. Friends who lived together and killed for each other and...affectionately bumping each other's feet under the table at fancy restaurants. That was a new one. 

John remembered Sherlock's foot brushing his inner ankle, the bone-deep shiver that had followed. 

John sighed. What on Earth was wrong with him? He was staring at water rings on a coffee table and getting emotional about them. He'd always been sentimental but this was ridiculous. 

The door opened, Sherlock rushing through it in a rush of coattails. John shook himself out of his stupor.

"Oh, you're here? I'd assumed you would be out doing something pedestrian, like buying those gloves you're getting me for Christmas. " Sherlock unwrapped his scarf and hung it on the coat rack. 

"Hm? Oh, those. Nah, I decided against them. Too short for your ridiculous fingers." He smirked. 

Sherlock stared at his hand briefly. "My hands are only slightly longer than the national average, they should still fit." And then without segue, Sherlock launched into a description of the fascinating body Molly had gotten in. Something about three different kinds of poison being administered. It sounded absolutely gruesome. 

John chuckled and shook his head. This was the man he had chosen to align himself with. He had to be crazy. But... 

He looked over and saw Sherlock talking animatedly, hands flying as he described in detail the effects of ricin _and_ arsenic being used together. He looked mad and brilliant and to be honest, beautiful.

John smiled. Maybe he was okay with being crazy if it meant life was like this.


	6. Six Geese A Laying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god this was yesterday's chapter. I'm so sorry, everyone. I've got a handle on this story finally and also I think my life so I should be fine now. We should move ahead with this on schedule.

**December 18 03:14**

John jolted awake. There was still gunfire, still the acrid smell of blood in the air. He reached for his gun, where was his gun? His hand hit soft mattress, flannel sheets. Home. He was home, he wasn't there. He was home.

John sucked in breath shakily. Home, he was home. He kept repeating it, telling himself that it was true. The feeling of hot blood under his fingers was still too real though, too lifelike. There was so much blood...

He was fine. He was fine he was fine he was fine he was fine....

He shuddered out a breath that threatened to break into a sob. No, God no. Not tonight. He couldn't catch his breath, it was too shallow, his heart was pounding too hard. He sucked in air, there wasn't enough getting to his lungs and it burned.

Panic set in, a high electrical crackle across his chest. He couldn't do this, not tonight, not again. 

Suddenly there were cool hands on his.  
"John. Listen to me. You're home." Sherlock's voice was firm and steady in the dark bedroom. 

John tried to steady his thoughts, his breathing, his skin. Every nerve felt alive and raw. 

Sherlock was still holding his hands, rubbing soothing circles onto the backs of them with his thumbs. "John, I need you take a deep breath. The most efficient way to slow down your breathing and prevent hyperventilation is in for four and out for four. Can you do that?"

John tried to answer but his breath was too short. He nodded.

"Good." Sherlock counted for him, quiet in the dark. 

1 2 3 4, 1 2 3 4. 

Over and over, on and on. John followed the rhythm set by Sherlock's voice, by his hands. It hurt and it was hard, he had to fight to make his mind follow Sherlock's count.

But eventually, the deep ache in his chest lessened and his heart rate slowed. There was still a tremor that ran through him from deep in his bones but he was breathing again. He was fine. He was home. 

Sherlock stopped counting. His thumbs kept rubbing circles into John's skin, still staring intently at John's face. There was a silence that yawned out between them, John unwilling to break the contact they had. He felt as though he'd dissolve if Sherlock let go. 

Sherlock stilled. "I'm...sorry. You were...I heard you in here. I'll just..." He pulled away, turning to leave.

John grabbed his wrist. "Don't." Sherlock turned. "I just... I don't want to be alone right now." Sherlock nodded slowly, then sat down on the bed next to John.

There was a moment of thick silence. Both men sat side by side, too still, arms and legs firmly planted at their sides on their own sides of the bed. Sherlock was on top of the blankets. They sat silent. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" Sherlock was looking at the corner of the room, avoiding John's eyes.

John sighed. He didn't want to, not really. What if Sherlock pitied him? Or thought he was pathetic? He couldn't handle that. 

"I don't require you to, of course. I'm simply saying it might be beneficial to discuss it. Get it off your chest." Sherlock seemed uncertain what to do or say. Well, he _seemed_ very certain, almost flippant really. But John knew the difference when it came to Sherlock. 

He sighed. His skin broke out in goosebumps. Deep breath. 

"There were six of us, dropped off in the middle of nowhere for a minesweep. Most of us had no idea what we were doing. And there was one kid, couldn't have been older than 19. Lawrence." Even as he said the name, the face rushed through his mind. He could still see Lawrence's easy going smile, his confident attitude. John shook his head, trying to clear it from his mind. 

John sighed deeply. "He managed to find a mine, blew his leg clean off. The rest of our troop went on with the mission but I stayed behind with him. He lost so much blood..." John's words trailed off, his mind stuck on the image of Lawrence bleeding out under the Afghani sun. He shivered.

Sherlock's hand found his. He began rubbing the tiny circles into the back of his hand like before. John felt himself untense the muscles in his shoulders and he laid his head back on the headboard. His whole body still buzzed with anxiety but the adrenaline had washed away, leaving him feeling hollow. God he was tired. 

"You need sleep," Sherlock said. It wasn't a question. 

"So do you, " John replied.

They sat there for several more minutes, neither one making a move to leave or lie down.

The silence was warm and comfortable. John's body still shot sparks across his nerves like live wires but they were beginning to become tolerable. He nodded off briefly, still sitting up, still holding Sherlock's hand. 

He was still holding Sherlock's hand. It only just occurred to him. He was holding hands with Sherlock Holmes. In his bed. Late at night. It had been so soothing, he hadn't even considered the context of it. 

John giggled hysterically. Yesterday, he pined over rings on a table. Three days ago, he was playing footsy. Today, they were holding hands in his bed. It was official. John Watson was a 13 year old girl.

Laughter spilled out of him, intense delirious giggles that had tears cropping up at the corners of his eyes.

"Oh Jesus," he wheezed out, finally taking his hand back from Sherlock to wipe away the tears. He was finally losing it, wasn't he? 

After who knew how long of him laughing like a madman, John finally managed to catch his breath. He looked over at Sherlock, who was staring at him, head cocked to the side, with the most amusing combination of concern and annoyance he'd ever seen. It nearly sent him into another giggling fit.

"Oh God, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm cracking up," John said, running his hands over his face. His voice was still high and reedy, threatening to spill over into another fit of laughter. 

"Go to sleep, John." Sherlock's voice had a warmth to it he couldn't name. He didn't want to.

Sherlock stood to leave.  
"Hey," said John softly, their moment apparently over. Sherlock stopped.

"Thanks, yeah? This was...you helped. A lot. I might be able to actually get some sleep tonight." He wasn't sure how well Sherlock could see him in the dark room but he gave him a smile anyway. 

Sherlock smiled back, reaching over towards John. John held his breath. Then the detective must have thought better of whatever he was going to do, because he retracted his arm. 

"Good night, John." And Sherlock slipped out of the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's anxiety attack is based on my own experiences with them, so I'm sorry if it's not accurate in terms of PTSD. 
> 
> And in case you're wondering why I chose this as my interpretation of Six Geese, it was based on this quote: 
> 
> "When we consider the goose never leaves one of its own kind behind, we begin to see the goose in a different light. Just like the US Marines, "Semper Fidelis" (always faithful) is the motto of the goose too.
> 
> Geese annually migrate to warmer climates during the winter. Should a goose become injured during this trek, another goose will leave the migrating flock to stay with its fallen comrade. The goose will stay with the injured until he has recovered or until its final breath. Nothing silly about that."


	7. Seven Swans A Swimming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY on track with this story!

**December 19**

One thing was certain about life with Sherlock Holmes: it was always interesting.

That was why John wasn't all _that_ surprised to find himself on a lake in a swan-shaped pedal boat, manically pedalling after a man who had been conning older women out of their money. And the man had a motorboat, of course. And a gun. And was firing at them. Of course he was.

"Pedal faster! He's getting away!" Sherlock was on the other set of pedals and steering. 

"I'm going as fast as I can! Not my fault my legs are shorter!" John snapped back. They weren't that far behind their man, anyway. 

Their target started heading under a footbridge. John looked over and saw the gears in Sherlock's head turning. He suddenly veered the swan sharply to the left, towards the shore.

"What are you doing?" John asked him.

"I have an idea. Stick close." 

And with that, Sherlock leapt out of the boat and onto shore. John scrambled over the side of the ridiculous wooden swan and tried to follow close. Sherlock ran ahead, right to the edge of the bridge and climbed over. Right as John caught up to him, the man in the motor boat passed underneath and Sherlock dropped over the edge, right in front of the man. 

The boat tipped over. John watched as Sherlock and the man both struggled to stay above the water and trying to fight each other at the same time. If it wasn't so dangerous, John might have found it funny.

"Oh Jesus..." John muttered, then jumped in to help. 

The lake was bloody freezing. John kicked for surface, breaking just in time to see Sherlock land a fairlt impressive punch, considering he was also treading water. The man went limp and started to go under. 

John swam over and grabbed the man, dragging him to shore. Just as he threw him onto the shore, Lestrade managed to finally find them.

"Lovely day for a swim, ain't it?" Lestrade grinned at him.

"Shut it," John shivered back.

~~~~~~

John and Sherlock shivered and dripped all the way up the stairs to 221B, Mrs Hudson tutting and following the whole way with a mop and towels.

"You boys, honestly. Its the dead of winter! You'll catch your death!" She shooed them through the door.

"Now both of you. Clean clothes, hot showers. Now. I'm making tea." She looked over at the damp men standing in the flat.

"Maybe hot chocolate. With brandy." Then Mrs Hudson nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.

John and Sherlock shivered next to each other a moment, sharing a grin. Mrs Hudson's hot cocoa was usually more brandy than cocoa.

"Boys! Clothes! Now!"   
They stopped grinning and went to change. 

Some minutes later, both men had taken a hot shower and changed into the warmest clothing they owned. Mrs Hudson sat them down on the couch and started arranging blankets around them, leaving only room for their arms to move and their faces.

"There," she said handing them hot mugs of cocoa. She stepped back and surveyed her handiwork, arms akimbo and grinning. She seemed almost too pleased with herself act.

"Now you two are not to move from this spot, do you hear me?" She flicked on the television, changing it to a channel that was showing made for TV holiday films. 

"Now you two boys behave yourselves. I'm going to go watch my programme. Shout if you need me!" And with that, Mrs Hudson disappeared through the door, leaving 221B in the quiet. 

John sipped his cocoa, then winced. Jesus, Mrs Hudson had a strong pouring hand. He saw Sherlock do the same next to him.

They sat in the silence, slowly warming up. It was that sort of bone-deep cold that took forever to go away. John burowed deeper into the blankets.

The couple on the television screen learned that the true meaning of Christmas was love and family, then kissed. The screen faded to black, the credits rolling over a pop cover of "White Christmas". Another movie came on not long after, this one about orphans and the couple that adopt them just in time for Christmas.

It was relaxing. With the blankets, the fire, the alcohol, the movies that were just predictable and colorful enough to make good background noise, and the company John was starting to feel quite cozy. He sipped his cocoa again. Quite cozy, indeed. He had to fight the urge fall asleep right then and there. 

A log in the fire popped loudly, making John jump slightly. His cocoa sloshed. He frowned, took another sip, then placed the mug on the table. His head was beginning to swim anyway. 

Sherlock was still. John wondered why he hadn't protested this set-up yet. Then he looked over and saw Sherlock was asleep, head tipped back and breathing evenly. His hands were still wrapped around his mug. 

John smiled and took the mug of cocoa from those ridiculous hands, placing by his own on the coffee table. 

For a moment, he considered getting up and going to his room. But the fire was so warm and the blankets were perfect for just vanishing into and falling asleep. The brandy ran through his veins, making him warm and his arms heavy. 

No, he was staying right here. This was just too damn comfortable to move away from.

And if he found himself curling up a bit against Sherlock's side on the couch? Well, not like anyone was around to see them.

~~~~~

John and Sherlock were fast asleep but had they been awake, they might have heard Mrs Hudson on the phone down in 221A. 

"Dottie? You'll never guess what my boys are up to. "

The other voice spoke.

"Well no, not yet. But if this doesn't help, nothing will."


	8. Eight Maids A Milking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness. I feel like slime for being so stupidly late on this. Please forgive me, I worn retail and it's the Christmas season. I promise to have this story done ON Christmas though.

Someone had unplugged the fridge. Why was anyone's guess. But it had happened and every single thing in it (jar of frogs included) had spoiled. John's grip on the door handle went white knuckle tight.

"Sherlock," John said through gritted teeth, barely a whisper.

Sherlock, at the kitchen island and staring into a microscope, said nothing. 

"Sherlock." Louder this time, a bit more irritation creeping in.

No response. He either didn't hear John or didn't care. 

John snatched up the carton of milk (that was well on its way to becoming cottage cheese) and stormed over to where Sherlock was sitting. He slammed it down in front of him.

"Sherlock." Finally, the detective looked up from his microscope to see John standing in front.of him, arms crossed and face red with anger. 

John said nothing, just jerked his head to indicate the milk.

"Why is that so far gone? You're normally much more on top of these things. Honestly, John do pay better attention in the future." Sherlock lifted an eyebrow then went back to studying his slides.

"The _fridge_ is unplugged, Sherlock. Why is that?" Johns fingers drummed against his arm impatiently, ill-concealed rage seeping out of his pores.

Sherlock didn't look up. "Oh that? The other night the hum was bothering me. Incredibly irritating noise."

And with that, John's tentative grasp on patience was gone. "My god, Sherlock! Everything in there is spoiled!"

When that failed to elicit any kind of meaningful response from Sherlock, John snagged him by the arm and dragged him from his seat.

"Right," he said as he led the detective to the front door of the flat, "put on your coat. We're going shopping to replace all of the food. And you're paying."

Sherlock tried to protest but John just hustled him into his coat, down the stairs, into a cab, and through the doors of a grocery store with Sherlock trying to fight him at every step.

As they walked through the door of the brightly lit building, John grabbed a shopping cart. "Come on, we're buying some pantry supplies while we're at it." He pushed the cart towards the pasta aisle.

"I only damaged the food in the fridge. I should be only required to-"  
John turned to face him and pointed a finger in his face. "You," John said, his tone sharp, "You have contaminated, _incinerated_ , blown up, or simply thrown away food in that kitchen since day 1. You're doing the bloody shopping."

Sherlock's jaw snapped shut with an audible click. He shoved his hands into his pockets like a sullen teenager and followed John's lead down the pasta aisle.

While John took his sweet time looking around (spaghetti or fettuccine? Store brand or name brand? Orzo or penne?) Sherlock moped about, staring at rows of pasta sauce, dubious shelf-stable cheese, and noodles.

John took an exasperating amount of time in each decision, relishing the fact that Sherlock was forced to do something this mundane and domestic. He decided on a box of fettuccine and some pasta sauces before wheeling the cart to the next aisle. 

As they went through the various rows of groceries, Sherlock remained silent. But as they went down the asiles, he tossed various items into the cart. Some made sense (snack cakes, his favorite tea, a jar of pickles) but others left John confused (a jar of pickled herring, gluten-free crackers, a plastic hot dog slicer, squid ink).

When Sherlock absentmindedly added a jar of lemon mayonnaise to the basket, John asked, "What are you getting all this for?"

Sherlock pulled out his phone and shot off a text, nearly walking into a young man who was picking out salad dressing. He didn't notice. John apologised for him.

"They were interesting," Sherlock said at last, slipping his phone into his pocket. "And since I'm funding this little excursion I'm not sure why it concerns you." He picked up a bag of freeze-dried shrimp and added it to the basket.

"Just curious, I suppose. Making sure you're not making a shrimp-based bomb," he said chuckling. The laughter dried up in his throat as Sherlock suddenly tensed up and looked away. 

"Sherlock I hope you're not-"

"I'm going to get the milk, I'll meet you in the produce section." And Sherlock bolted before John could demand he explain himself. 

John sighed. Some days he couldn't believe the crazy life he led with the mad brilliant detective. But compared to his life without Sherlock? He wouldn't trade it for anything.

He wheeled the basket towards the produce section, picking out some apples, bananas, and a couple of oranges. As he was contemplating buying grapes, Sherlock returned, carrying three different kinds of milk.

"Sherlock, Why are you getting goats milk and..." he picked up the unfamiliar carton and read the side. "Cashew milk?"

"I wanted to try it," replied Sherlock with an indifferent shrug.

"You can't just get every single thing that catches your eye, you know." John let out a weary sigh.

"Why not?" Sherlock picked up a lumpy green vegetable and stared at it appraisingly. The description underneath it said it was called a chayote squash. 

"We don't have room for all of this in the kitchen, not with your experiments everywhere. And anyway, most of this will spoil before you even get to eat it. It's wasteful."

Sherlock didn't respond. John shut his eyes and counted to 10, trying to prevent himself from getting irritated and forming a stress headache. When he looked up, Sherlock had moved away to look at ugli fruit. John shook his head, smiling. There wasn't a point in arguing, was there? Sherlock would always have a near-childlike excitement for New things, forever flitting from distraction to distraction.

"My Samuel was the same way, always running about," said a soft voice next to him. John looked over to see an older woman standing next to him. She was smiling fondly at Sherlock, her eyes gentle and kind.

"Oh him? No, we're not...um...We're..." John trailed off. What were they exactly? They were friends, obviously. But they were rather close for friends. Best friends then. But John thought about what a best friend was meant to be. It wasn't this all-encompassing orbit around each other, this overwhelming draw. 

"We're flatmates," he said finally. It certainly wasn't wrong.

"Oh I just thought since you two were so comfortable near each other and the way you were smiling just now, looking over at him..." She seemed sad now. "I'm sorry, young man." She pushed her cart forward, leaving John standing lamely in front of the grapes, still hung up on the fact that he couldn't define his relationship to Sherlock. 

Why did everyone assume they were a couple? Sure their relationship was difficult to define but they didn't act particularly like a couple, at least in John's mind. 

Well...there was the staring. And the bickering. And all his failed or abandoned dates, all too ready to leap into action when Sherlock asked. And they had ended up essentially snuggling the night before... and just as John Watson realized he was essentially in a non-sexual relationship with his best friend/flatmate, said best friend/flatmate came bounding over.

"John lets go, supermarkets are dreadful." John nodded nimbly as Sherlock quickly tossed a pack of habanero peppers into the basket. 

The rest of the trip was a blur. Why should he pay attention to anything? He was apparently in a relationship. Did Sherlock know they were dating? Was there an anniversary for this? Oh God, was he meant to get anniversary gifts? How many had he missed?

Johns thoughts swirled the whole ride home. He was still lost in thought as they went up the steps and put the shopping away. When that was taken care of, he slumped in his armchair and said nothing. 

He was in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes.

"If you're going to continue thinking so loudly could you please go in your room? It's quite distracting." Sherlock's voice snapped John out of his own head. He looked up. Sherlock had returned to his microscope and was making notes again, like the whole trip had never happened. 

John stood up. He took careful measured steps to the kitchen table. 

"Sherlock..." he said quietly. Sherlock glanced up. John didn't say anything. Just stared. 

"I..." he trailed off. What was he meant to say? 'I've recently been informed we're dating and wanted to know if you knew as well'? So instead of saying anything, he just stared.

Sherlock's head cocked to the side, concerned. "John. Is everything alright? " His eyes went soft with concern. An errant curl fell in his face.

Some insane part of John's brain wanted to reach out and tuck the curl back into place. He suppressed it. The moment dragged on, endlessly, as Sherlock tried to deduce what was wrong, tried to read John like a book. For once, John wished he would.

The tension finally snapped, John chuckling nervously. "I'm sorry, I'm not feeling well. I'm going to go lay down, I think. I have to deal with Harry tomorrow anyhow." 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes minutely but nodded. He looked back down at his microscope. 

John went to bed. He didn't sleep.


	9. Nine Ladies Dancing

John stepped out of the cab after Harry and was immediately assaulted on nearly all five senses. There was aggressive pounding music, an endless thrum thrum thrumming that went straight for the base of his skull. The parking lot reeked of stale beer, sweat, and cheap cologne, a scent combination that crawled down his throat and wrapped around his tongue. His eyes were treated to an obnoxiously large neon sign that flashed the words DIRTY DAN'S in a rainbow of colors. He supposed that the place would feel gross as well.

It was grubby, it was loud, there was glitter on the cement beneath his feet. This could only mean one thing: Harry had taken him a strip club.

"Harry, you said we were going out to eat!" He griped. Not that he had been looking forward to an awkward dinner with his sister, necessarily. But it was certainly preferable to being at a _strip club_ with his baby sister.

"Hey," Harry said as she slung her jacket over her shoulder. "They've got food." She grinned wide at him and ran a hand through her hair that was cut shockingly similar to John's own. He shook his head and followed her lead. There usually wasn't any point in arguing with her and anyway, Johns only other option would be to go home. That wasn't going to happen.

He'd managed to avoid Sherlock entirely all day. He'd laid in bed until he heard Sherlock leave the flat then he'd dressed quickly and left for the day. He ran some pointless errands and then wandered around London all day, doing anything he could to keep away from the flat.

He was almost positive Sherlock knew that he was avoiding him, it was hard to get anything past the man. John couldn't handle seeing him today, though.

Harry had already made her way up to the front door of the club and was waving John on. He jogged over quickly, hands shoved in pockets to keep out the cold. "Harry, you do know this is ridiculous right? I'm not the kind of guy to go to..." He hesitated. "A place like this," he said at last.

Harry shoved his shoulder lightly. "That's exactly why I'm bringing you, Johnny. You need a little fun in your life. And anyway, girls are the only thing we can both agree on." She stuck out her tongue.

John restrained a bone-weary sigh. "Alright fine. But no drinking."  A head taller or not, she was still the little sister and he wasn't budging on that.

"Course not, Johnny." She gave him a fond smile, for a moment looking more like the little girl who used to convince him to play dolls with her. Then the thrum of the music rang through his bones and he remembered where he was. That little girl had grown up. 

Harry pushed the door open and they both walked in. Immediately John was overwhelmed by the tacky floor and the heat of the room. Directly in front of them the stage was visible. There was a girl swinging upside down from a pole by her legs. John was impressed. 

They checked their ID's at the door and Harry led them off to a table not too far from the stage. From here, John could see everything better. There were three poles, with one in front and two further back next to each other. The girl on stage had apparently just finished her routine. The music stopped its assault (John was eternally thankful) and the girl collected her bra from the edge of the stage. Then, with a salacious wave, she sauntered off stage. A man about John's age came out on stage. "That was Cherry Bomb, everyone! " There was scattered applause. "Next up," said the announcer with far too much false enthusiasm, "She's a loose-canon cop and she won't rest until she gets her man...Brandy!" 

Some unknown rock song revved to life and Brandy came strutting on stage, dressed in a police officer's uniform, if you could call it that. It was really nothing more than a tiny black skirt, a pair of stilettos, and a crop top with a police badge on it. She carried a pair of handcuffs, nails painted a bright red. Brandy's copper hair was poking out from a police helmet. It was all rather silly. John had to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. 

Brandy began her routine, stalking around the stage and twirling the handcuffs about on the tip of her finger. John remembered how Sherlock had done that once with Greg's cuffs and clocked himself in the face. He allowed himself a small smile at the memory.

The routine went on fairly predictably, ending with (big shocker) Brandy down to nothing but a g-string. As the music ended, Brandy tipped her hat and collected her tips and bra before running off stage. 

Harry grinned at John. "She was cute, yeah? Love a ginger." 

He rolled his eyes but said nothing. The next girl came out. John had just barely caught her name. It may have been Lucky, he wasn't sure. Lucky had pale skin, long black hair, and big blue eyes. The music began again, a deep bass vibration that was beginning to.give John a migraine. God, he was getting too old for places like this. 

"Hey John, I'm gonna get us some food, right?" Harry yelled over the din. He gave her a quick nod and Harry went off to find them whatever dubious things were considered food there.  
While Harry was gone, John let his mind wander, not really interested in watching the show. Honestly, he wished things weren't weird at home. He'd much rather be in front of the fire reading a book than in a seedy strip club. He was getting domestic. 

But no. Part of him still wanted to go chasing criminals down the back alleys of London, too. Go right some wrongs, feel useful, feel the hot adrenaline pulse through his blood. He drummed his fingers on the table, suddenly irritated he had avoided Sherlock all day. What if there was a case? He could be off right now, chasing after Sherlock and Russian mafiosi. He could be doing anything other than sitting here while a woman named Dymond collected bills in her g-string. He cradled his head into his hands, arms propped on the table.

Why was he being so weird about all this? Sure, he and Sherlock had ended up bizarrely close over the last few years. But he didn't need to freak out like this. Its not like he was...well, no it better not to finish that sentence. There had been moments after the fall... 

There hadn't been any harm in admitting it then. And he'd wanted to wallow in his misery then, wanted to feel _something_ even if it was overwhelming grief. Since Sherlock's return though, nothing had changed. They had more or less fallen back into their same old routine. He'd thought it best to chalk all of what he had felt then as a weird manifestation of loss and ignore it. But things felt different now. Sherlock had been thoughtful, almost affectionate lately. And John had been okay with it. God, he was in over his head.

A tray slammed down on the table, jarring him out of his head. "I brought pizza!" Harry sang out. John plastered on a false smile. He was supposed to be enjoying time with his sister before Christmas, not...Jesus, he was pining wasn't he? He had to stop that. 

"Thanks, Harry." The pizza looked a bit like someone had melted cheese on a sheet of cardboard. He found he didn't have much of an appetite. 

Harry dug into her pizza, smiling widely at John and glancing over to the stage. A woman dressed as a schoolgirl flounced around. John suddenly felt old. 

Harry must have picked up on John's glum attitude. She nudged him with the side of her arm. "C'mon Johnny, this is supposed to be fun!" 

"I'm having fun," he replied with a tone that indicated he was having anything but.

"Careful John, you get any more cheerful than that, someone'll think you're a Christmas elf."

He sat up straighter. "I'm not that short, _Harriet_. "

"No no, of course not! You're not that short, of course. You're more..." her eyes gleamed unconsciously.

"Harry, don't you dare-" 

"You'd make a terrific Hobbit!" She cackled with the glee that only comes from winning a sibling bickering match.

John groaned but smiled back at Harry, finally. "You will never let me live that down, will you?" 

"You kidding? That was your best Halloween costume ever. I really should thank Mum for that."

"Hey, two can play at that game Rainbow Brite."

She sniffed. "I happen to think that one was precious."

"And the year Mum made you a carrot?"

"Hey," she said, warning. "We agreed not to talk about that one."

"Fine, Fine. Just making a point." He held up his hands in false surrender. 

Harry smiled at him. "Its good to see you, John. You've got to get the boyfriend to let you out more often."

John tensed. "Let's just...eat," he said stiffly. He finally picked up his pizza and immediately wished he hadn't. 

"What? What did I say?" She looked hurt. 

"Nothing, Harry. It was just a joke, yeah?" He may have snapped a bit.

"Well...yeah. Of course it was just a joke. I mean, you've been seeing that Rachel girl anyway."

He stared ahead at the girls and took a bite of his pizza.

"Ooh, no more Rachel? What happened? " She patted John's shoulder.

He sighed. "If you must know, she said she wasn't aware dating me came with the added bonus of Sherlock Holmes."

Harry snickered. "Oh he came and crashed another date did he? That man has no tact, I swear. Can't wait to meet him."

"....no. He didn't crash the date. "

Harry cocked her head to the side. 

John sighed. If he couldn't tell Harry this stuff, who could he tell? "I kept checking my phone, seeing if he needed me for anything. "

Harry snorted. "Jesus, John. Maybe he _is_ your boyfriend."

John stood up. "I'm going to get some air," he said quickly. 

"What's wrong with you tonight? You're acting all-" And then it dawned on her. "Oh God you poor idiot you figured it out." She grabbed John by the arm and dragged him out of the club. 

"Harry, let me go!" He yelled at her, attempting to wiggle out of her grasp. She had a strong grip, though. 

"No, you listen to me. John, you're the smarter sibling when it comes to most things but you're shit at emotions." He said nothing.

"Look, you've been lusting after that man since the day you met him. Now, I've been patient. Didn't want to scare you off, didn't want to cause your Big Gay Panic about it. You finally got it, though! What did he say?"

John stared over her shoulder and said nothing. "Oh God you haven't told him?" Harry asked incredulously. 

"Nothing to tell," John said stiffly.

"John Hamish Watson, you are denser than a brick." She scowled at him. 

"Harriet Elizabeth Watson, you are a busybody!" he snapped at her.

"Look," she sighed, hooking her thumbs in her pockets. "You love him, yeah?"

John scoffed. "I don't know what you're-"

"John." Her tone was warning. 

His shoulders slumped. "Yeah." He smiled, thinking of the detective, flopped on their couch, or shooting bullets in their wall, or driving Mrs Hudson mad. "Yeah, I do."

Harry gave him a small smile. "Then you've gotta tell him, Johnny. Trust me, you don't want things left unsaid. Not if you really care about someone." 

John pulled her into a hug. "Hey, don't go beating yourself up over that right now. You were sick, okay?"

He felt her nodding against his shoulder. "Give my love to mom and dad, yeah? Tell them I'll come up next year. "

She pulled away and smiled at him. "I'll tell them you're bringing company."

Oh God. The thought of Sherlock spending the holidays with his family was simultaneously hilarious and terrifying. "We'll see," he said chuckling. "Merry Christmas, Harry."

She shook her head, smiling. "Merry Christmas, big brother."

When John got back to Baker Street, Sherlock was gone. Just as well, probably. He had no idea what to say to the man and they had to leave for the Holmes' early in the morning. Even though it was only about 8:30, he decided to go to bed. As he laid down, he tried to come up with the right words to tell Sherlock Holmes he loved him. For the second night in a row, he didn't sleep.


	10. Ten Lords A'Leaping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And a whopping three months after I promised to have this darn fic _finished_ I'm posting the next chapter. Forgive me, I am not worthy of your love. 
> 
> I am (tenatively) hoping that things will move faster from here on out. There's two chapters left on this darn thing and then it'll be done, I promise.

John slept for nearly the entire train ride out to the tiny English village where Sherlock's parents lived. The only time he awoke was when Sherlock brought him tea and a sandwich. They both ate in comfortable silence and then John drifted asleep again.

Eventually, Sherlock roused him. They had arrived. There was a shuffle of bodies getting off of the train, momentary fighting for baggage. Then they were outside the train station and heading towards a very irritated Mycroft, no doubt sent to collect them. 

“Brother dear, how kind of you to join the family for the holidays.” Sherlock met him with a glower and threw his bag in the trunk of the car. John sighed and followed. The car ride was icily silent as the two brothers tried to see who could ignore the other harder. Granted, this meant that they ended up paying rapt attention to each other instead. But that was the Holmes brothers in a nutshell.

Eventually, after miles of tiny village and quaint homes, they pulled up to a small brick house with smoke pouring out of the chimney. “Welcome home, Sherlock.” Even saying something pleasant, Mycroft managed to have the air of a disinterested husband in a shopping mall.

Before the three of them had even gotten out of the car, an older woman, about Mrs. Hudson's age, came running out of the house. She shouted Sherlock's name and pulled him into a hug, which he managed to just barely reciprocate, patting her back delicately.

After a moment, an older man cam out from the house and walked over to Sherlock. “Son!” he beamed, pulling Sherlock into a crushing hug. Sherlock seemed painfully uncomfortable with all this physical contact.

Mrs. Holmes came over to John, who had started pulling their luggage out of the car. “And you must be Dr. Watson!” she said, grinning. “We've heard so much about you, Sherlock just goes on and-”

“How about we head inside, Mother? Awfully cold out here.” Sherlock rushed all of them into the house before his mother could continue that thought. 

John brought his luggage into the house, which was just as comfortable normal as the outside. A fire was burning away, there was garland hung on the mantle, and a large Christmas tree was decorated in silvers and reds. Just like Mr. and Mrs. Holmes themselves, it was nearly the opposite of what John was expecting. He smiled, relishing the warmth of the fire.

“Oh John, dear let me take that bag for you,” said Mrs. Holmes as she took a duffel bag out of his hand. She walked down a hallway. “Now you and Sherlock will be staying in his old room. I was going to make Myc and him share but last time I tried that they quite nearly killed each other. It was absolutely dreadful, the way they bickered! And the pranks! Very nearly destroyed the Christmas tree.” She continued to chatter away while John smirked. Myrcoft had mentioned atrocious Christmas dinners. Well, he would certainly get to see firsthand. Though...something Mrs. Holmes said was just hitting him now. Did she say... did she say he was sharing a room with Sherlock?

 

It wasn't as if they hadn't shared rooms before. But that had always been hotel rooms. Double rooms, with separate beds. Sherlock's old room wouldn't have two beds...

Sure enough, he was right. She showed him into a small but comfortable bedroom, with science textbooks on a shelf and a neat little desk in the corner. And one full-sized bed.

“Naturally, I cleaned up in here. I'm assuming Sherlock is still a whirlwind of a man, hm?”

“Oh, yeah. Absolute terror that one,” he chuckled.

“Now I hope you don't mind the single bed, but I'm sure you two can manage nicely. You are adults, after all.” Mrs. Holmes' tone was neutral but her face held that same arrogant smirk that Mycroft's face often did. It seemed she was playing matchmaker almost as much as Mrs. Hudson did. John swallowed.

“Now dear,” she continued, clasping John's arm. “Let's put these bags down so we can go and chat with the rest of them, shall we? I'm sure you're starving after your traveling all morning.” 

John dropped the bags he was carrying (Sherlock's included, of course) and followed her to the kitchen, where Mr. Holmes was making tea and Sherlock was arguing with Mycroft at the kitchen table. John sat down next to Sherlock.

Like the rest of the house, the kitchen was decorated tastefully and comfortable. There was a round wooden table with six chairs around it, two of which were taken up by the Holmes brothers. Along the table was a tastefully hideous cloth runner, bright red with happy reindeer on it. It was so far from what John had expected to find from Sherlock's parents. They were...well, frankly they were adorable. 

“Mycroft, that is utterly absurd, it was not 'make-believe'. It was developing a skill for disguise and deception,” Sherlock shouted, slamming his palms.

Mycroft was more involved in this argument than John had ever seen him. His coat was draped on the back of his chair and he had rolled his sleeves up. He had lost his usual stoicism. 

“Oh come off it, William. We all know it was dress up and make believe. Now admit it or I'll show John the photo album.”

Sherlock's face crumpled into a scowl. “You wouldn't dare,” he said, punctuating each word.

“Boys!” called Mr. Holmes from the kitchen. “Behave yourselves.”

Both Holmes brothers leaned back in their chairs, looking chastised. 

“Sherlock started it,” Mycroft mumbled under his breath but conceded. He reached over and picked up a Christmas cookie from a plate that was on the table.

“Now now, Mycroft. Wouldn't want to ruin your diet. You've been doing so well,” Sherlock drawled.

“Sherlock! Be nice!” snapped Mrs. Holmes, who was leaning on Mr. Holmes' shoulder, holding a cup of tea. Mr. Holmes kissed her on the cheek and ducked out from under arm so he could bring mugs of tea to the table. 

They all sat around the table, drinking tea and eating Christmas cookies, chatting away. John told Mr and Mrs Holmes about one of their more recent cases (with corrections and commentary from Sherlock) and the Holmes' talk about the lovely trip to France Mycroft had sent them on their anniversary and wasn't he such a sweet boy, always so thoughtful and he helps around the house even. Siger patted Violet's arm gently, trying to get her to stop talking, but he smiled. Once she got going, it was hard to make her stop. 

Mycroft seemed uncomfortable at being called a “sweet boy” and excused himself to go lie down for a bit. Sherlock muttered something about needing to make a call to his homeless network and left almost as quickly. That just left John at the table with Sherlock's parents. He sipped his tea quietly, unsure of what to say to them now that the boys were gone. Siger spoke first. 

 

“So, Sherlock tells us you're a doctor? GP or do you have a specialty?”

John smiled. This was safe enough territory. He told them about the locum work he was doing at the clinic, but he also mentioned his time in the army. Their eyebrows went up with what John hoped was a positive reaction. Mrs Holmes went on a it about how difficult that must have been and how impressed she was, was it hard returning to civilian life after all that, after all Afghanistan was such an intense war zone and-

Siger met his eyes with a bemused grin, letting Violet go on. John smile back. He liked them. They weren't what he'd expected, to be sure, but somehow Sherlock's parents being sweet normal old people made sense.

“Now John, I do hope you and Sherlock won't be too tired to join us all for the village party Christmas party tomorrow night?” Violet asked suddenly.

John looked up from his mug. “Oh? Sherlock didn't mention a party.”

Siger smiled, a deeply sarcastic thing that made him look suddenly much more like Sherlock. “He's not the biggest of fan of Christmas, I'm sure you've noticed. He's a good boy, he's just... Oh, what was the that word that his teachers used, dear?”

“Contradictory?” Violet supplied.

John chuckled. That sounded about right. “Well, I'm sure we can drag His Highness out from some Christmas cheer. One night of family bonding won't kill him. Might kill Mycroft though,” he chuckled.

Violet laughed high and giddy. “Mycroft loves the village party. Its his favorite event of the year, and not just for the spiced cider.”

John shook his head, each new revelation about the Holmes family making him more confused. They weren't posh, they weren't conceited or difficult to keep up with. Well, Sherlock and Mycroft were. But they seemed to be the odd ones out. And even then, they had their soft sides.

Just then, Sherlock popped his head into the kitchen. “John, what have they said? It's all lies.” Sherlock eyed his mother suspiciously.

John looked at him straight-faced and sipped his tea. “Darn, you mean he isn't actually a Bolivian spy? Pity.”

Violet casually muttered something about baby books and Sherlock's face went positively pink. “Come on John, I'm sure your tired after all that traveling. Let's let you relax a bit.” Before John could protest, Sherlock had grabbed his arm and dragged him from the kitchen. Behind him, he heard the Holmes' laughing.

Sherlock didn't let go of his hand even after they had entered the hallway. John resisted the urge to brush his thumb along Sherlock's hand. 

“You know, I like your parents. I was expecting them to be more...well, like you and Mycroft. Distant, hyper-intelligent, all that.”

Sherlock turned and fixed him with a smirk that was apparently a Holmes staple. “Mummy is one of the most brilliant mathematicians of our time. She quit academia to be a housewife.” John blinked at him. It was always something with this family, he swore to God...

Just then, he noticed framed photos along the hallway behind Sherlock. One in particular had a sullen-faced little boy with pitch-black hair and reindeer antlers in his tangled curls. Next to him was a boy, older and large for his age, holding a microscope and flashing a gap-toothed grin. Sherlock followed his eyes, then rolled his own.

“Must we go through the tedious childhood show-and-tell, John?”

John smiled at him. “Yes.” Sherlock released his hand but led him him down the hall, describing pictures along the wall, adding story and context.

John listened to Sherlock as he described summers by the local lake, birthday parties in the backyard, a rather precious picture of him in a raincoat and hat holding a rather large frog with pride. There were photos of Mycroft at a formal dance, signature disinterested look in place even as a spotty teenager. Violet and Siger's wedding photos were painfully reminiscent of the 1970's (Siger had a large bow tie, Violet had Farrah hair, and both of them were sporting a shocking amount of powder blue accent pieces.) and Sherlock's graduation photo was adorably serious, considering his hair was long enough to pull back into a ponytail. 

Sherlock, for all his insistence otherwise, seemed to be enjoying telling the stories behind all of the pictures. John was definitely enjoying hearing them. Sherlock seemed like his fully real, tangible thing now. A man who wasn't just danger and intrigue, murder and tobacco ash. He was also scraped knees and birthday cakes, action figures and pirate swords. For once, John thought about reaching out to this man and wasn't filled with apprehension. Sherlock could feel, could love, John had a chance.

Sherlock stilled beside him. He had grown rather animated telling these stories but now he was staring at one photo in particular. It was a photo of him, maybe 7 or 8 years old. He was grinning wildly and his arms were wrapped around the neck of an Irish Setter. He stared at the picture, quiet. John stood beside him, unsure as always, how to handle Sherlock's emotions. The silence grew thick and heavy around them, like winter fog.

“His name was Redbeard,” Sherlock said at last. John looked over at him, saw the blank mask Sherlock would so often slip on during serious emotional moments. “There was a car. I was at school.”

John said nothing, just slipped his arm around Sherlock's shoulders and pulled him into a sideways hug. The detective flinched at the contact at first but after a moment, John felt him untense. They stood silent in the hallway for what felt like an eternity, John rubbing at Sherlock's arm soothingly, Sherlock leaning into the contact.

Eventually, the atmosphere shifted as the hug grew longer, John's touch on his arm less for comfort and more as an excuse to keep touching Sherlock. Even this small amount of contact was something new and exciting, something different. A blurring of their carefully laid-out boundaries. Sherlock turned his body to face John, pressing himself closer. 

From here, John could feel the warmth coming off Sherlock's body, the slight quickening of his heard as John moved his hand lighter, almost tickling him. Sherlock smelled like oaky cologne and something spicy, something he couldn't place. They stayed suspended in a moment so delicate, John feared the wrong breath could shatter it. His pulse thrummed in his ears. Should he say something? Should he do something here, in Sherlock's childhood home? He swallowed. If he didn't do it now, who knew when he'd work up the courage again?

“Sherlock,” he began, voice low and quiet. Sherlock turned his head to look at him. His eyes were soft and questioning. “Look, I-”

The door at the end of the hall opened and suddenly Sherlock was away from his touch, standing a respectfully platonic distance away. Mycroft came out from the bedroom at the end of the hall, looking slightly rumpled from his nap but otherwise the same old buzkill John remembered him being. Of all the times to interrupt...

John looked over at Sherlock but there was the mask in place again, the Sherlock very few got to see put away. John sighed as Mycroft walked by. The two brothers had some sort of brickering contest through eye contact alone as he passed by. John's eyes met Mycroft's, who simply smiled politely at him. And then Mycroft was gone, most likely off into the kitchen to talk with the Holmes'. 

“I should, ah...” John said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I should go lay down, yeah?”

“Yes, that sounds quite good,” Sherlock said, voice clipped. To anyone else, it would have sounded rude and dismissive. John recognized it as his carefully practiced indifference returning. Sherlock swept past John, not meeting his eyes.

“Wait,” said John, suddenly noticing a small picture at the end off the hall. It was smaller than most of the other photos, in a plain black frame. Like most of them, it had a tiny Sherlock and Mycroft looking far too serious for their age. Unlike the others, however, this one had other children as well. All of the kids were fidgeting and dressed like tin soldiers, with huge red circles painted on their cheeks. Neither one of the Holmes boys looked anywhere in the same realm of pleased with this arrangement. But whereas Mycroft looked ready for a full-on strop, Sherlock's head was raised stoically, as if he was ready to meet the firing squad.

“You did The Nutcracker?” John asked, looking over at Sherlock. His cheeks were tinted pink. 

“Mummy enrolled Mycroft and I in ballet for a while.”

“You look ready for Death himself.”

Sherlock gave a sheepish grin. “I was mad because they wouldn't let me be The Nutcracker Prince.”

“You would throw a proper fit on stage over that, you big drama queen.”

“Me? Dramatic? Perish the thought.” Sherlock stuck out his tongue to emphasize his point.

“Well at any rate, you would have been an adorable Nutcracker.”

“Wouldn't he, though?” Mrs. Holmes was leaning against the wall, her arms folded across her chest.   
“Too bad you had to go bite that little ginger boy, what was his name? Oh, Eddie Franklin, that's right. Too bad you bit him, otherwise you might have gotten lead.”

Sherlock sent the least heated glare John had ever seen at his mother, who simply raised an eyebrow in return. 

“He was so painfully stupid, Mummy.”

“Well, that doesn't mean you have to go and bite the boy, Sherlock!”

They ended up falling into an obviously well-worn argument. John rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall, smiling. Christ, this family...

The rest of the day passed fairly quietly. John spent   
an hour or so chatting with the Holmes' about some of their more recent cases, carefully leaving out any instances where Sherlock took unnecessary (read: stupid) risks. At some point Mycroft and Sherlock played Monopoly, but with a set of rules they clearly had made up themselves. When that inevitably ended in a screaming match, the Holmes' managed to restore peace with dinner. 

They all sat down for a (mostly) peaceful meal and Sherlock even mangaed to be polite through most of it. They all wound down afterwards in the sitting room, talking and drinking nightcaps. John settled onto a love seat by Sherlock and fell into a warm haze, listening as the Holmes family discussed family friends. He allowed himself to drift off, nearly falling asleep right there. When his chin hit his chest, he snapped his head back up.

“I think I'm gonna turn in for the night,” John said, standing. “Been a long day.” They all exchanged good nights and lovely meeting yous and see you in the mornings before John let himself down the hall and into Sherlock's tiny bedroom.

Right. Sherlock's room. Where he'd be sleeping. In Sherlock's bed. With Sherlock. Well not with Sherlock, just near Sherlock. But still. He swallowed thickly, set about changing for bed in a desperate attempt to distract himself. Right, this was fine. He was just going to crawl into bed and sleep. Probably be asleep before Sherlock even got in. Sure. 

He laid there in the dark for a while, willing himself to fall asleep so he could avoid Sherlock coming in. But sleep refused to come to him as the tiny clock beside the bed marked a half hour passing. He sighed into the quiet room.

The doorknob clicked quietly and John tensed as he heard Sherlock pad softly into the room. John was faced away from the door, laying very very still as he heard Sherlock changing for bed. This was fine, he was fine. Just because he was about to share a tiny bed with his gorgeous flatmate that he'd recently realized he was in love with didn't mean he had to be nervous. They'd stay on their own ends of the mattress. It'd be fine. 

Sherlock climbed into bed and the mattress dipped softly, nearly turning John over. He could feel the warmth of his body seeping into his skin. It was more than a bit inviting. Briefly, he entertained the thought of rolling over and pressing in closer, but that would be a Very Bad Idea, he decided. 

“John?” he heard Sherlock breathe into the quiet room. 

John let out a sleepy mumble, liked he'd only barely woken up. He just wanted them to fall asleep so he could deal with tomorrow. 

“Thank you for coming along. You've made this trip slightly more bearable.”

“You're welcome,” he mumbled.

Then it was silent again. John ignored the way he wanted to roll over and wrap his arms around the other man and instead focused very hard on keeping his body as far to the edge of the bed as he could. 

Sherlock's breathing evened out and John let out a quiet sigh of relief. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. He'd talk to him tomorrow.

John closed his eyes but it was another half hour before sleep would come to him.


End file.
